


A Ready Answer

by Barkour



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Missing Scene, PIV Sex, Resolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6525838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hadn't known it could be like this between them. She wondered that she'd never known.  (Fill-in scene for 6x10.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Ready Answer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glamaphonic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glamaphonic/gifts).



> IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED, RAWLES?

They were clothed, still, even as Rick moved above her, even as Michonne hooked her fingers in his belt to pull him nearer. She could not keep her eyes closed long. The light was poor, the hour late. She wanted every inch of him.

Rick smiled as he kissed her, his lips warm and curling. The hair of his chin scratched her. Michonne hitched her knee up by his thigh and pulled away from his kiss to smile in her turn.

The worn skin by his eyes crinkled. She'd a memory, an impression of the man she'd met at the fence at the prison. A man with fewer grey hairs, fewer lines. Rick moved his heavy hand slowly up her side, from thigh to hip, hip to belly, at last to breast. He was smiling as he did all of it. The weight of his hand was a stone to ground. 

"Hey," said Rick.

"Hey, yourself," said Michonne.

His cheeks rounded. His lips parted; he ducked his head, pleased somehow. She wanted to laugh and so she laughed. 

"Now, hey," said Rick, "I might be a little out of practice..."

She darted her eyes at an angle, meaning the hand petting her breast. "You do still remember how to undo a bra?"

"Never did figure that one out in the first place."

Michonne laughed again. Grinning, Rick ducked his head. The kissing was easy. All of it was easy. She hadn't known it could be like this between them. She wondered that she'd never known. 

His mouth parted readily to hers. He groaned at her fingers, pulling the shirt from his jeans to get up under it. He slid his other hand low to cup her ass, and Michonne's moan hitched as his fingers dug in, and Rick said, "How the hell did I never think about that?" into her mouth, and Michonne couldn't kiss him for her laughing.

Rick said, "What's so funny?"

Michonne shook her head. Her locs slipped across her throat. He left off her breast to pass them behind her shoulder. His hand lingered by her neck. The ends of his fingers curled in. The whorls rasped her skin. Goose flesh pricked her.

"You," said Michonne.

"Well, what about that," said Rick, and he made to loom over her. She grabbed at his breast pockets, meaning to collapse him on top of her. 

His foot caught something on the table and sent it crashing to the floor. They both of them jumped. Rick moved to shadow her. Instinct made them silent. Michonne closed her eyes at the cold of it.

"Gun?"

Rick eased. "Nah. Baby monitor."

The world encroached. Made to jump, ready to fight, even in one's own reclaimed home. She opened her eyes again. Michonne would see it. 

A stack of plastic rings on a peg, a rag doll Carol had made of scraps: Judith's toys sat as small islands on the floor. Carl had forgot a comic book on the table. He'd folded it open to a page. She told him not to bend them like that; it popped the staples. 

The long, taut line of Rick's throat was given to her. The baby monitor had caught him. Judith slept with a fist at her nose and her butt high. 

Michonne let her breath go.

"Rick." 

She laid her hand over his stubbled cheek. The hair scratched her palm. Michonne spread her fingers wide across his bearded jaw.

He looked at her. Judith murmured on the monitor. She saw it in him too, that reminder of what the world was now. 

Michonne said, very carefully, "We shouldn't do this on the couch."

He looked a moment more, then the lines of his face folded. "Probably not," he said, and Michonne laughed as he sat back and adjusted his jeans.

He stood before she did, and she reached her hand out to him. Then Rick, archaic man that he was, stooped and got his arms under her: scooped her up though he staggered a moment.

"If you drop me--" 

She tossed her arm around his shoulders. His shirt sleeve wrinkled under her hand. He grunted.

"I'm not gonna drop you."

"You can forget about breakfast in bed."

"Wasn't thinking about breakfast," he said.

She leaned near to kiss his jaw, his throat. Grunting again, Rick hitched her higher and climbed the stairs, pausing between steps.

"Gotta keep quiet."

Michonne put her face in his shoulder and laughed again.

"You wanna--you wanna wake Carl?" Laughter strained him, too. 

"You want to put me down?"

"Not when I got you," said Rick.

The dark hid the grey in his beard. She stroked his chin with her hand and knew the grey was there. Her scars were here too.

"All right," said Michonne. "You got me."

*

And wasn't it easy, too, to undo each button of his worn shirt, to let him strip her belt from her? Michonne unclasped the watch at Rick's wrist and put it aside on the dresser before kissing the inside of that wrist where the metal had sat warm against his skin, his blood, the veins that carried life through him.

Rick said, "Michonne," in that low way he had of speaking to her. 

She shucked the shirt from his shoulders. His hands spanned her naked waist, her hips. He slid a hand lower, to skim across the scar Merle's bullet had made of her thigh. His fingers brushed it. Rick looked at her. The breath of him was hot on her throat. He waited, stroking.

Michonne took a step back from him. He let his hands fall. Rick, shirtless, in his dirtied jeans but not his boots, watched her. She reached behind her to unfix the hooks of her bra. That, she put on the dresser next to his watch. She let her arms fall, too. It was dark in the room, in Rick's room, dark but for the frail staring of the waning moon.

Michonne spread her arms to him. She lifted her chin.

"You can touch me now," she said.

His eyes were dark, too. His wrist flexed at his side as he worried his hand. He nodded.

"All right," said Rick. "All right."

He crossed to her. Two steps to stand before her, and Michonne caught his face in her hands and kissed him like they hadn't stopped on the couch. Rick groaned into her mouth and got his hand around her hip to squeeze. 

"Still wearing your jeans."

"Don't matter." 

He sucked on her lip. They were moving in slow and swaying steps away from the closed door.

"It's gonna."

"Not yet."

The bed, then. The edge of it startled her. Michonne sat heavily on it and giggled. She covered her mouth but Rick, slipping to his knees with his arms sliding on either side of her, he said, "Don't cover that up. I like to hear it."

Amused, she lowered her hand. "Do you think Carl would like it too?"

"Hear you laughing?" He nodded, all thoughtfulness. "Sure. He'd like that."

"Would he, now?"

Rick's eyes crinkled again, as if he held back on a laugh of his own. In the same solemn way he said, "Better than the next part."

Her heart beat. How long since she had felt so full? Michonne carded her fingers through his curling hair. His stubby lashes jittered. With his hands pressed flat into the sheet on either side of her thighs, she spread her knees. The kiss he set on the inside of her right knee was fierce, the kiss to the left lingering but no less hard. He did this again to her thighs, then higher still as he rose up on his feet again. 

She wriggled up the bed, and Rick climbed after her, his scarred and freckled shoulders made broad and pale by the shirts he wore. Rick's breath shook through him. 

"You waiting for something?" Michonne asked him. She asked it dearly. "Another invitation?" She brushed her knuckles along his thick-haired chest.

"Nah." He shook his head. "It's just that--" He stroked his palm along her thigh again, the inside of it this time and then a second time on the outside, so gentle over that old scar. He tried a smile. A weight worked his throat. "You're just real nice to look at. Is all."

Michonne managed not to laugh too loudly. "Is that your way of telling me I'm god damn gorgeous?" Her heart was fluttering now rather than beating. That weight was in her too.

His effort turned easy. A smile, crooked. 

"Sometimes," he said to her, "I catch myself staring at you, and I don't stop. Not right away. Not like I should."

Now it was her breath that clung and stuck and shook. She swallowed around her teeth.

"Well," said Michonne. "You can keep looking. As long as you like."

He rested his hands high on her thighs. "Okay. You keep looking back at me. All right?"

She shifted her legs for him, as he settled down between them with his shoulders parting her knees. Michonne blinked. She did it slowly, so he might see. Her gaze was steady. His chest swelled with breath and then contracted. A burning moved in her thighs.

"I am."

Rick bent to her.

As promised: he lacked for practice. So, too, did Michonne. An issue that did not press. Enough, perhaps, for the unhurried kisses he gave to the crease of a thigh, the wetting folds. Trails that stung on her skin, where his chin had moved over the flesh.

Michonne folded a leg over his shoulder. She swept her heel along the flexing in his back. Rick hefted her leg higher. His hand spanned her prone thigh. She let her knee bend over the edge. The hardwood floor was summer warm against the tips of her toes. 

Rick ran his tongue over her. Michonne sighed.

"Not so out of practice," she murmured. She twisted two fingers in his hair.

He hummed--a chuckle--and rolled his tongue again. The hot skin of it scraped. His beard as he tipped his head to pull at her, that scraped too.

"You need to shave."

His lips curled against her in a grin. She felt his teeth. 

Michonne pulled at his hair. "I mean it."

He was a fast man, Rick. A quick learner. He moseyed his tongue up her folds then nipped at her clitoris. 

"Don't like it?"

"You ever had a beard between your legs?"

He scoured her thigh with his chin. "Yes or no question, Michonne."

She worked her hand more thoroughly into his hair. "Ask me again later."

Rick kissed the spot he'd chafed. "Yes, ma'am."

Nudging, Michonne guided him back to her. He went readily to work. 

Did she like to have her clit worried by teeth and tongue? Sure, she did. He asked questions, sometimes with his fingers, sometimes his words. She didn't like his tongue in her. She liked his fingers just fine. He nuzzled at her as the heat came spooling in her belly. She liked to hear him groan. She liked that Rick liked it, eating her. Folded up as he was she could not see but she could hear his hips shifting. Still tucked up in his jeans.

He curled two fingers up inside her, stroking as he sucked at her clit. The wetness slid from her, and he took it in his hand. Michonne's belly quivered. She fisted his hair; she tugged at him. She tried for gentleness then gave it up as she bent her throat up to the world.

Michonne rose on a soft hill. A little climax shook her. Her thighs tightened. Her heel dug into his shoulder. Rick stepped lower to lick it from her. That hair scratched her again. She found she didn't mind it. The itching of it was another heat.

She pulled on his hair. "Get up here." The words staggered in her mouth. She swallowed for steadiness. 

He rose willingly. His chin half-shone. Slickness on him. Michonne left off his hair as she made to sit up. Her legs still ached. She got her fingers in the belt loops while Rick fumbled with the button.

"Get up here," she said again.

He managed the button at last, but he caught her hand before she got the zipper. Rick hesitated. 

Michonne paused. "What is it?" 

Their fingers twined. He was inscrutable. Then he tipped his head and the moonlight moved across his wetted cheek. A heaviness to his eyes. The spool in her gut unraveled in its turning.

He rubbed his thumb down the crook of her own. "I wanna be inside you." 

Rick shrugged a shoulder. The corner of his mouth tugged, a grimace. How else to say it? There was nothing of poetry about him. 

So Michonne gave him truth in turn. She didn't ask for poetry. She had what she wanted.

His eyes were on hers. She would not look away. No chained links between them. Michonne had held his looking so long inside her and never put a name to it. 

Rick slipped out after the second stroke. The reverence shifted to a sweeter thing. Michonne laughed into her arm as Rick swore and laughed and reached with his hand to fix it.

"Just a, uh, tricky situation."

She was smiling. Her face hurt with it. "Real hard work, huh?"

His eyes flicked to her and then away. Wryly he said, "Harder than you think."

"If it's that hard, you could ask for help."

"Nah, nah, I got it." His breath hitched. Rick slipped his cock into her. He was slower this time, Michonne at ease. It went smoother like that.

"I got it," he said again. His gaze went to her again. 

"So c'mon," she said.

"All right," he said. A smile flickered at his mouth. "You go first, though."

Michonne hooked her arms behind his neck. "You a gentleman now?"

Rick snorted. His hips rolled between her crooking legs. Michonne gasped; she bit it back. Her throat arched again. Rick leaned to kiss it. His lips came to rest at the crux of her shoulder and neck. 

They found a rhythm together, somewhere in the stops and starts. She got his hair again, curls twisted up in one hand. The other hand was nails on his shoulder. Her locs gathered beneath her head. A movement let her shake them wide. To his thrusts, she offered counterpoint. Rick's breath ragged at her neck. A good stroke, then another. Like striking sparks off a stone. She saw it clearly, the red-yellow sparks tindering. Michonne said, "There--keep doing like that."

Rick grunted and lipped at the long tendon of her neck. "Got it. You get--shit. Michonne." She hooked her arm under his. "Get your leg up."

Another fine stroke that had Michonne's belly tightening, her breasts sore; then a stuttering thrust that missed the mark. She brought her leg higher and Rick caught it in his elbow to hold it there; a muscle on the inside of her thigh twinged. The next hard shove of his cock had Michonne digging her nails into his scalp.

"Yeah," said Rick. Self-satisfaction roughened him. "Got it now. That better?"

"Shut up and keep moving."

He hid his laugh in a slow kiss to her throat, another at her clavicle. His hand spanned the underside of her leg. Each callused length of finger burned. 

Rick sighed and lifted his head to kiss her jaw. "Damn. I was glad to see you."

"Watch your mouth," she said, "the baby's sleeping," and then Michonne cracked up. She couldn't help it.

"I was, though! Just one long, shitty day." He rocked into her, kindling, kindling. "And--at the end of it--all I thought was--" 

The hair of his beard roughed her face. He kissed her longly. Michonne cupped his head in her hands and deepened the kiss further still. Her lashes lowered. When the kiss was done, she pressed their foreheads together. The noise of their bodies meeting was a hush.

"And I was waiting for you," she said. Rick kissed her again at that. "This whole damn day--"

"Language."

She let off his hair and smacked his back. The sound of it was sweat-slick. Rick swore again and gave a jagged thrust.

They held quiet, as much as they could. Judith slept in the adjoined room, Carl in the next room on the hall. Michonne clutched Rick to her. His body was steady, chest haired, shoulders broad, stubbling beard a mess. He shifted them again to get his free arm under her, and then he was holding her near too. The movement of their bodies, together, that was as easy as anything else.

"How long?"

He grumbled to her shoulder. "'Bout a week."

"And you didn't say anything?"

"Didn't know if I should."

"You should've."

"And if you didn't?"

"I did," said Michonne.

They rocked now rather than fucked. His hand was sliding sweetly along her leg as he ground with her.

"Did you know?"

"Not all the way yet," she admitted. "Not till you put those mints in my hand."

He laughed, groaningly. "Should've got you toothpaste."

"'Cause then we'd do something else?"

"Then I could've brushed my teeth first."

"If you think I'm not used to that smell by now."

Rick laughed again, and Michonne, smiling, laid her hand on his cheek.

"We're a pair," said Rick.

Michonne said, "Yes, we are. Now hurry up and fuck me, Grimes."

He turned his head to kiss her palm. "I'm working on it."

Wasn't much longer after that. She came again with his hand on her clitoris, pinching it as he ground his cock inside her, his hips moving in tight circles. She hadn't thought he'd last so long but he managed it. Another stroke, again, a third then a fourth, and Rick suddenly embraced her, held her bundled closely to him as he jerked and spilled inside her in three long, hot spurts.

Oh, shit, Michonne thought, condoms. Then she let the thought go. Didn't much matter anymore these days.

Rick trembled. She stroked his sweated hair, his heated nape. Her skin, too, burned. The sweat smells were great; she didn't mind that either. There was a comfort to it, to know she could have that here. She could have it with Rick.

Michonne swallowed around her dry mouth. Rick shifted. He petted her, languorous strokes over her back and thighs. The curl of his back gentled.

"How the hell," Michonne said after a long moment's holding, "did we never think about that?"

Rick snorted. "Forget it." He raised his head to look at her. A curl of hair was plastered to his brow. He brought a hand up to thumb her lip. "'S'happening now."

Michonne palmed his nape. His smile was worn. His eyes were lined. 

"All right," she said. "That's good for me."

Rick kissed her brow, her cheeks first right then left, then, lastly, her nose.

"All right," he said.

It was.

**Author's Note:**

> I refuse to acknowledge Rick's shaved chest.


End file.
